


Wake Your Neighbors

by laratoncita



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Pining, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 02:16:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15086837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: The Most Beautiful Man in the World, Who Lives in My Building and Only Ever Sees Me When I Look DisgustingOr, Derek and Will are neighbors.





	Wake Your Neighbors

Derek is facing a conundrum. A quandary. A dilemma.

Derek is no stranger to challenge. He applied to grad school during a seventeen-credit semester. He remembers, distinctly, crying into his sister’s hair every time he went home that year. By spring semester they were happy tears, of course, but the point stands. Challenges are a regular part of his life—writing is a hell of a career, and the steps he took to get to where he is today were all well-fought battles. But this is a different kind of issue, one that he can safely say he’s never encountered before.

He lives next to the Most Beautiful Man in the World.

Or, well, in the same building as him. On the same floor, even. And sure, Derek knows he’s good-looking. He grew up with two mothers and a father who were big on affirmations, even if he and his sister still greet each other with a cheerful, _hola fea! hola feo!_ , whenever they get home. He’s dated a string of painfully good-looking men and women from all sorts of backgrounds; Keiko, his most recent girlfriend with whom he still maintained a strong friendship, was in the process of signing with some up-and-coming label or another. He’s not shallow, but his partners happen to have all hit the genetic lottery, he can admit that.

This neighbor though. He’s a whole different story.

Derek has had some pretty stunning experiences—sunsets in the motherland, a slice of pie from a Michelin star restaurant, Beyoncé live the summer he graduated from high school—and he can safely say that this man is comparable. He’s all he writes about lately; broad shoulders, the flash of red hair. Once Derek locked eyes with him as the elevator doors were shutting and he walked straight into one of the end tables in the lobby. There’s a three page poem in his documents where he tried to pin down the golden color he saw that day. He’s not quite sure he managed it.

He distinctly remembers the first time he laid eyes on the beautiful man. It’s the source of the issue he’s dealing with, after all. Derek’s never had this much difficulty interacting with someone since he was six years old and convinced he was in love with Theo Dai. His moms loved it; Fatima still brings it up at Christmas dinner every year, Baba always wiping away an imaginary tear when she does it.

Derek bikes everywhere; it’s easier, to say the least. He knows for a fact that he looked good that day, in a gray sleeveless shirt and a black pair of workout shorts. It was a Friday evening, the sun barely setting outside and the first really warm day of the year. He was checking his mail, he remembers. At the corner of his eye he registered a coppery flash, but he ignored it in favor of opening a letter from a magazine he had submitted a few pieces to. The blurry shape was checking the mailbox farthest from where Derek stood.

In his rush, of course, he managed to drop all of the mail he had—coupons, advertisements, bills of all kinds. It hadn’t been pretty; somehow he managed to catch a few and then drop them and then repeat the process, a few of the heavier pieces shooting upwards like projectiles before slipping through his grip yet again.

“Shit,” he said, and then, “no, don’t do that!” as they spilled from his grip. He sighed, looking down at the mess of envelopes on the floor, and sounded entirely too sad when he said, “Why did you do that when I explicitly told you not to?”

He heard a muffled laugh, and when he looked up that flash of red had manifested into a man with a shock of orange hair and a jawline that could break through cement. Derek’s jaw dropped. The stranger—the Most Beautiful Man in the World, Derek would soon dub him—dropped into a crouch, instinctively moving to help gather up all of his mail. He looked up at him, mouth still quirked into a smile. Derek focused on the pale, wispy eyelashes. Derek knew, immediately, that he was fucked.

“Oh,” he said, mirroring the stranger and dropping to his knees, “hi, I, thank you, you don’t have to—I’m Derek, sorry, I can take—”

“It’s alright,” the stranger said, “it’s not a problem.” Their fingers brushed when he hands over a thick stack of envelopes. Derek felt suddenly clammy.

“Thank you,” he said, and the man smiled. Derek stood up suddenly. He was hit with a vivid vision of holding the man’s hand in some far-off fantasy. No one had the right to be that beautiful.  “I have to go,” he said, abrupt. He was sweating by the time he got up to his apartment. Remembering it still makes the embarrassment feel new. His hot neighbor had looked so confused. So beautiful. Derek hates it.

Worse, the second time that he saw the beautiful man was after a night out drinking with the crew for Shitty and Lardo in celebration of their engagement. They got absolutely schwasted at a tapas bar that Derek was obsessed with at the time, and afterwards went back to his place for yet another round of drinks. Bitty was hanging off his neck as they stumbled through the lobby, getting weepy about all of them growing up. Bitty was small enough that it didn’t matter, but just as they were approaching their elevator the other one opened, revealing his most favorite redhead in the entire world.

Derek is grateful he didn’t say that aloud, though he definitely thought it. As it was, his foot got caught on the tacky carpet of the apartment, a garish maroon that reminded him of the theaters his parents would take him and his sister to during the holidays. He stumbled. Lost his balance. Fell forwards, armful of Bitty, who started screeching in Derek’s ears.

“Nooo,” Derek said, and felt more than saw the hands of several people trying to keep him from completely crushing Bitty, who despite his compact strength was sure to be upset if Derek were to fall on him. The two of them landed with a thud, only in his mad scramble to get back up Bitty managed to kick Derek, still winded, off the elevator.

“Brah,” he thought he heard, “we’re going to lose Nurse and none of us have keys.”

Weak, Derek said, “Go on without me,” letting himself sprawl over the carpeted floor in front of the elevator. He thought he could see Bitty being cradled by Shitty while Lardo leaned up against Jack, apparently overcome by her own laughter.

“Are you okay?” someone said. Derek turned his head slightly to see who it was. He was greeted by eyes the color of honey. Amber. Something golden-tinged and good.

“Oh,” he said, and then blacked out.

Jack says he didn’t embarrass himself, but Derek doesn’t trust him. He knows he probably fucked up somehow. Worse, of course, than falling into and then out of an elevator.

At least, he comforts himself, he’s a catch. His mothers have told him so. His ex-girlfriend who broke up with him to move to Brazil and pursue her doctorate on the diaspora told him so. His sister—well, she constantly roasts him, but she loves him anyway, so he’s pretty sure that speaks to his character at the very least. All of these things are comforts.

Another comfort, of course, is his tendency to avoid things that cause any damage to the fragile homeostasis of his life. He’s big on finding balance, and if something is stressing him out then the only logical conclusion is to find an activity that makes the stress disappear for at least a little while.

This particular stressor has him picking up cardio again, which he hates, especially now that it’s springtime and the temperature is rising and all the drivers are, once again, going batshit without the snow and wind disrupting them. It’s a healthy distance from his apartment to campus, and he usually tries to schedule office hours for immediately before or after his classes. This semester has him heading out just after noon twice a week, though, which means he has to actually be outside during the hottest part of the day.

Today he gets caught in a brief, ten-minute drizzle that was initially a phenomenal cool-off; by the time he arrives home, however, it’s stopped, leaving him damp with both rainwater and his own sweat. He can feel it pooling uncomfortably between his shoulder blades; he sucks on his teeth in discomfort. He can feel a single drop rolling down his cheekbone. His shower is so close and yet so far.

He usually leaves his bike in the basement, which is a hassle but not as much as it would be if he had to, say, lug it up to the fourth floor with him. He isn’t willing to do extra cardio though, and hops on the elevator instead, grimacing when he remembers having fallen into it so recently. The frown only intensifies when he realizes he has yet to learn the Most Beautiful Man in the World’s name, and he’s sighing intensely when the elevator gives a _ping!_ on the ground floor.

He swallows audibly when said beautiful man steps onto the elevator, only to inhale sharply when he realizes what he must look like: sweaty, damp, and tired for no discernable reason. Maybe, he tells himself, telepathy is real, and spends a good fifteen seconds intensely imagining his bike instead of conversing like a normal person.

“Hey,” the redhead says, while Derek is deep in thought. He raises an eyebrow when Derek doesn’t answer. He thinks he might see the other man check him out, but then again his clothes are soaked and he no doubt smells, so Derek doesn’t think the odds of that are in his favor. More likely that he’s wondering how a mess of a human being can afford to live here.

Or maybe he thinks he’s a serial killer. Derek’s pretty sure he saw a crime episode about that once.

“I’m a professor,” Derek blurts. From the corner of his eye he sees his beautiful neighbor blink at him.

“Good to know,” he says, and then the door to the fourth floor is opening and he’s gone before Derek can say anything, or at least apologize for being sweaty. He leans against the front of his door before he walks in and says, “Why.”

The next weekend finds Derek grabbing lunch with his sister at their favorite Mexican joint. Fatima and her boyfriend are apparently discussing marriage, which Derek disapproves of.

“Why can’t you just live in sin like the rest of us?” Derek says, pouring a healthy amount of salsa roja all over his rice.

Fatima takes a bite of her enchiladas verdes. She sips horchata, and Derek covetously glares at her; the jamaica was good but not as good as the horchata, and it’s a mistake that he makes every time they go here. It’s pretty much tradition at this point; once a month Fatima visits from DC, though the actual visits are usually every three weeks or so. She grabs lunch with Derek and then they have Sunday breakfast with their parents in Uptown. They’re both indecisive though and suckers for Mexican food, which is why, yet again, they’re sitting in Frida’s.

“Because,” she says, finally, “I would like to have a baby soon, and Brian wants to, too.”

“You’re not pronouncing his name right,” Derek says to her, “it’s _Brallan_.”

“Don’t be an ass, _your_ name is Derek.”

“Fine,” he says, holding his hands up for a moment before reaching for her drink. She swats at him but otherwise allows him to take a gulp, stealing it back for himself once he’s finished. “But if you name your kid Junior I’m going to confiscate it.”

“You’re so annoying,” Fatima says, but she’s laughing so Derek takes it. “Besides, I know you have chisme for me too.”

“Disculpe?” He grabs another container of salsa and starts to pour it out over his tacos this time.

“I swear to God,” Fatima says, making as if to grab at him. Instinct makes him flinch, and of course he’s still mid-pour as he does so.

As fate would have it, he is also wearing a pale yellow tee, and the red of the sauce spreads across it too quickly for him to even try to minimize the spill.

“Shit,” Fatima says, dipping a napkin into her glass of water and then passing it over. Derek rubs at his shirt but he recognizes it as futile. It’s going to leave a stain, he realizes, and presses the damp napkin to his forehead instead.

“Damn,” he says.

“Sorry,” Fatima says, “but then again, I’m sure that was inevitable.”

She pronounces the word funny.

“I hate your accent,” he says, and she flicks him with water.

“Shut up and update me about your life,” she says, voice dangerously whiny. Derek is going to do what she wants when she wants it, which is pretty standard for them. He wonders if he’ll get used to it one day. “I know you don’t wanna go out in public looking like a two year old.”

“This was your fault!”

“Allegedly,” she says, “you have no proof. Start talking.”

“You are _so annoying_ ,” Derek parrots to her, but does as she says and starts talking.

By the time he gets to wax poetic about his beautiful neighbor he’s all but forgotten the stain, and not even Fatima’s roasting him for not knowing the guy’s name can get him down.

“How can you not have gotten his name? You’ve run into him enough times that you should have asked,” she scolds. He makes a face at her.

“I’ve made a fool of myself every time I’ve seen him.”

“You said he checked you out.”

“What?” Derek says, “No, I didn’t. He noticed I was gross and sweaty.”

Fatima hums. She’s eating the remainder of their chips and salsa. “I don’t know about that. How tight is your bike clothes?”

“Fatima!” he says, scandalized, and she laughs.

“And he was concerned when you fell off the elevator!” she says. “By the way, the fact that you did that in the first place is impressive.”

“I blacked out,” Derek says, “I don’t even know what I said to him after that.”

“What did Jack say?”

“That I said I was fine, said thank you, and then told him I hoped he had a _stunning_ night.” Derek wants to strangle his drunk self.

Once she stops giggling Fatima says, “Okay, but what did he say about your hot neighbor?”

“First, don’t reduce him to just being hot. He’s—”

“The Most Beautiful Man in the World,” she deadpans, “yes, I got that. What did Jack _say_?”

“Nothing really.”

“Derek.” She says it the way their aunts pronounce it, the vowels exaggerated. He makes another face at her.

“He said…helookedalittleconcerned, but that means nothing.”

“Oh my god, you’re so dumb,” Fatima laughs, “fine, keep pining after your redhead. I haven’t seen you this sprung over a white boy in ages.”

“Let me live,” he says, but grins when she throws a piece of chip at him. He’s missed this.

When he gets back home he’s practically bouncing, and it’s not until some woman he’s seen in the laundry room gives him an amused look until he remembers that his shirt has a bright red stain on it.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself, and then again, louder, when he turns towards the elevators and spots his favorite redhead waiting for one, too. He flounders, because he wants to get upstairs before anyone else sees his ruined shirt, but doesn’t want said beautiful man to see him wearing the ruined shirt. This is bullshit, he thinks to himself, but isn’t willing to awkwardly hover in the lobby while he waits for the next elevator ride, not now that he knows people have already spotted him. He sighs. He doesn’t deserve this.

You are smart and talented and very, very good looking, he reminds himself. There’s no reason—

The beautiful man turns, having heard him approach, and his smile morphs from friendly and open to amused when he catches sight of Derek’s shirt. If Derek were less mortified he’d wonder why the man’s gaze dropped to his chest so quickly but today is not that day. Derek scowls, keeping his gaze on the elevator, but his neighbor has something different in mind.

“How was lunch?” he says. Derek feels his jaw drop. The _nerve_.

“Good,” Derek says, voice tight. “Great, even.”

“I can see that.”

Derek lets out another gusty sigh. He turns to the beautiful man, since there isn’t much else to do besides try and explain himself.

“You got sisters, man?”

The man grins. “Nah. Older brother, though.”

“That works too,” Derek says, “anyway, I was out with my sister and she happens to bring out the worst in me. The act-like-a-five-year-old in me, y’know?”

The beautiful man laughs. He even tilts his head back a little. Derek’s mouth goes dry.

“I hope the food was good at least.”

“It always is.” Derek sounds melodramatic to his own ears. “Company could be better, though.”

“Yeah?” the neighbor says. He looks at Derek from under his eyelashes—impressive, considering they seem to be about the same height. Derek feels out of his element. His brain is short-circuiting.

“Frida’s. You ever been?”

“Nah,” the man says again, “not yet. Still kinda new in town.”

“Really?” The elevator _dings!_ open. They both step onto it. Derek says, “It’s not too far from here. Tastes real, too, like my mom makes.”

“I’ll have to check it out,” the man says. Derek watches in what feels like slow-motion as he bites his lip. He seems to have a brief, intense internal debate before saying, “I’m Will, by the way.”

__

He reaches a hand out to Derek, and Derek meets him halfway for the handshake. The Most Beautiful—Will’s grip is firm, and his hands are dry and warm.

__

“Derek,” he hears himself say, “my name is Derek.”

__

-

__

(That Friday Derek answers his door to find Will with two armfuls of popcorn and assorted sweets. There’s a three musketeers bar between his teeth.

__

“Movie night?” he says.

__

Derek has butterflies. He says yes.)

__

-

__

**Author's Note:**

> notes: i got this prompt AGES ago and i got it written half-way before starting work full-time so sorry anon i love you and i hope you like this. fatima is three years older than derek and wants to work for the fbi, she has her phd in educational policy probably and is working on a second one in ??? something awesome, of course. frida’s is not a real restaurant but i didn’t want to do extensive research for this piece, clearly, and anyway, i write too much about nyc for someone who has never been. thank u for reading!!
> 
> ps. wake your neighbors is from kehlani's "the way" bc.....'we gon’ wake your neighbors / turn your block club to my fan club' ??? that shit is hilarious


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